


Smitten with Red

by ABitObsessed, Blixer



Series: ShuAkeWeek2020 [5]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Biting, Choking, Crossdressing, Degradation, Dirty Talk, Groping, M/M, Makeup, Mild Painplay, Pining, ShuAkeWeek2020, handjobs, mild frottage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:39:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27389599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABitObsessed/pseuds/ABitObsessed, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blixer/pseuds/Blixer
Summary: A small little dress-up party thrown by Ann goes a little awry when Akira learns that the same Detective Prince he has a crush on has been invited too.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Series: ShuAkeWeek2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1988329
Comments: 6
Kudos: 55





	Smitten with Red

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: Home, Outfits, Opposites...
> 
> but we only did Outfits LMAO

Akira’s phone buzzes, and he reaches over to grab it as he contemplates the rhetoric of a certain philosopher. He twirls his pencil in between his fingers, quickly jabbing in his password without much thought.

Thesis and antithesis, huh…?

It was frankly embarrassing that the first thing he thinks of is the conversation he and Akechi had when they first met. 

The detective prince had looked at him, given him a secret little smile when Akira had contradicted him (with a dry tongue because he was trying very hard to ignore how damn pretty the guy was) on live television, an intrigued glint to his eye. He did not freak out when Akechi had later called out to him, thanking him for being frank about his opinions. Akechi had seemed _very_ pleased by Akira’s frankness, and the thief was lost to the sudden rosy hue permeating the air at the smile the Detective Prince directed his way. He said something about Hegel, which Akira had really been trying to pay attention to, honestly, but he was far too distracted by how, when this close, Akechi went from pretty to stunning. 

Akira decided right then and there that it was unfair how handsome the guy was. All his features worked in tandem, from the slope of his nose to the lines of his jaw to the curve of his eyebrows. 

How on earth did he make even _eyebrows_ look attractive?

And then he had stuck out his hand and given him his phone number after Akira managed to force himself to shake it. The thief certainly, most definitely, did _not_ memorize the contours of the detective’s hand, just as he did _not_ brand the warmth of his hand into his heart.

He also did _not_ refuse to wash his hand for a couple of days, before Sojiro snapped at him about proper cafe cleanliness and general hygiene.

He did not have a brief panic attack the first time Akechi had texted him, asking him if he wanted to spend some time with him at a place called ‘Penguin Sniper’.

He did not salivate over Akechi’s ass as he bent himself over the pool table, smirking smugly as he break-aced.

Akira shakes his head to dispel the cloud of pink and heat that the memories laid over his brain. He was far too distracted.

Damn Hegel, for sidetracking him. It was definitely _not_ his own fault.

His phone buzzes again in his hand. He looks at it, thinking that maybe a break was in order to sort the mess in his head.

**Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** hey 

**Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** hey u gay mess

 **Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** do u have time rn?

 **Gay mess (yourself, dumbass):** not really, doing an essay for chuono but i could use a break

 **Gay mess (yourself, dumbass):** why? 

**Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** i have some clothes that are meant for someone way taller than me

 **Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** i thought it would be a shame to just throw them out, so i was wondering if u would like to try some one and take them off my beautiful hands

 **Gay mess (yourself, dumbass):** *on

 **Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** shut up

Akira had to smile at that. He quickly types out a reply.

**Gay mess (yourself, dumbass):** i worship the beautiful hands

 **Gay mess (yourself, dumbass):** i dedicated my soul to the shrine today

 **Gay mess (yourself, dumbass):** will you forgive this poor, repentant sinner

 **Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** hmm

 **Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** ill forgive u if u come over and let me dress u up

 **Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** u owe me afterall

 **Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** and dont think i dont know ur pining after mr. detective prince again

Shit.

**Gay mess (yourself, dumbass):** you have no proof of such things

 **Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** u only ever do work when ur trying to distract urself from our resident pretty boy detective

 **Gay mess (yourself, dumbass):** lies

 **Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** dont make me pull out the photographic evidence

 **Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** ur pining, and this will be a better distraction for the botho f us

 **Gay mess (yourself, dumbass):** *both of

 **Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** i will gut u u pining, messy, panic gay, right after i make u confess

 **Gay mess (yourself, dumbass):** you love me

 **Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** ur damn lucky i do

Akira chuckles fondly, rubbing the back of his neck and feeling the heat burning the nape of his neck at the thought of confessing.

A...distraction sounded like a really good idea, actually. He needs to get his mind off the detective, before he does something regrettable, like letting something slip about their plan. Or worse, he’d do something embarrassing--like get lost in staring at Akechi whenever he saw the guy next, simply because he thought he’d like to hold his hand again sometime. 

He sighs. He probably needs to straighten out his priorities sometime soon.

**Gay mess (yourself, dumbass):** gimme 20 mins, ill be there soon

 **Gay mess (yourself, dumbass):** you better make me beautiful

 **Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** i plan to make u stunning

 **Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** now hurri up!!!

 **Gay mess (yourself, dumbass):** *hurry

 **Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** ill scorch u

Akira puts his phone in his pocket after smiling one more time, throwing on some shoes and picking up his bag, debating if he should bother with waking Morgana up.

The not-cat would no doubt complain later about being left behind when Akira had visited ‘Lady Ann’, but he didn’t want Morgana to be there to remind him about the plan and, by association, that he was hopelessly crushing on his would-be murderer. Frankly, he didn’t really want to think about how messed up that was. So Akira opts to leave him behind, telling himself that he would use the excuse that Morgana looked too comfortable in that square of sunlight to be disturbed.

He waves at Sojiro before walking out and heading towards the station, thoughts hopelessly drifting to a certain red-eyed detective.

* * *

Akira expected a variety of things when he opened the door to Ann’s apartment. Things like the floor being littered with clothes, chip bags and crumbs on the table, and general untidiness, as was Akira’s perception of Ann’s habits. 

He didn’t expect a clean apartment. 

And he _really_ wasn’t prepared for the sight of Akechi Goro in a pair of leather form-fitting pants, along with a neatly pressed light blue dress shirt, the top button undone to expose the little dip of his collarbone.

 _Shit,_ his brain absentmindedly supplies as his ears burn. 

He swallows, his mouth suddenly dry, watching Akechi tie his hair in a messy ponytail.

 _He’s hot,_ his brain adds unhelpfully.

“There you are, Akira!” Ann says enthusiastically, poking her head out from the kitchen. 

“H-hey,” Akira stammers after he had gathered enough wits about himself to get his mouth to do more than gape, cursing his thick tongue.

Akechi turns his bright eyes on him, smiling pleasantly. “Ah, hello, Kurusu-kun.”

Akira’s heart skips a beat, as it always did when Akechi’s attention is on him. “What, uh...what are you doing here?”

His voice cracks. He tries, in what he hopes is an inconspicuous manner, to clear his throat. 

_Smooth._

He wishes a black hole would manifest underneath him and swallow him whole.

If Akechi notices anything is amiss, he doesn't show it. “Takamaki-chan contacted me earlier about needing help picking out which dresses she should keep and which ones to dispose of. There was a break in the amount of cases I’ve been receiving, and I thought this would be a nice change of pace.”

Akira rubs the back of his neck and desperately hopes his voice will come out even this time. “I see,” he says simply, stupidly.

Akechi smiles at him in response.

_You’re fine. See? Nothing weird happening here._

Ann catches his gaze, giving him a knowing smirk and stepping out of the kitchen, armed with a bowl of chips. “Don’t just stand there, dummy, come in!”

Akira follows the instruction mechanically, closing the door behind him. The metal of the handle makes him realize just how sweaty his hands are, and as he closes the door behind him, he discreetly wipes his hands on his pants.

Only for them to immediately become clammy again as Akechi rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, buttoning them up so that they stay bunched at his elbows, exposing his toned arms.

Akira sucks in a breath and looks pointedly away.

Ann offers him the bowl, and he takes a handful of chips, promptly stuffing them into his mouth in an attempt to give himself some time to recover. He’d like to be able to face his ‘rival’ with some composure, and right now he isn’t entirely certain if the heat of his cheeks is the result of an embarrassing blush or the hint of an oncoming sickness. The thief hopes it’s the latter. At least then he has an excuse.

Ann’s expression tells him that his hope is futile and that he’s pretty much fucked. He’s blushing to the tips of his roots, no doubt.

As Akechi scrutinizes Ann’s bookshelf, Akira drags Ann back into the kitchen for some semblance of privacy, before dropping his voice a low whisper and giving her what he hopes is his best scolding expression.

“Ann,” he whispers furiously. “What the hell is Akechi doing here?”

She shrugs, grabbing a chip from the bowl and munching on it. “I wanted a second opinion.”

“And you couldn’t have asked anyone else?!” Akira responds, and if he sounds hysterical, he thinks he’s a little justified. It’s not fair to dump this all on his head. He can’t handle Akechi most of the time, even when he spends hours preparing for it. He most certainly cannot handle an unexpected Akechi, dressed in something other than ugly argyle (that he still manages to pull off, the bastard) or his school uniform.

Ann crosses her arms and lets out a little huff, clearly not intimidated. “No,” she hisses right back. “I can’t trust Ryuji’s opinion on anything. Makoto’s fashion sense is debatable. Futaba said she was busy with other stuff today. Not like I trust her fashion sense either, but at least she’s honest. And Yusuke said he was busy trying to finish up a piece that’s due in two hours. Haru was going to come over, but then something came up at the company and she couldn’t make it. Besides,” and she lowers her voice even more, “if he’s here with us we can keep an eye on him. Make sure he’s not committing any more...crimes.”

Akira sighs, trying to reign himself in. She has a point. “You’re right. I’m sorry,” he says genuinely. He reaches up to pull on his hair. “I’ve just been a little stressed out lately.”

 _Stressed out because you’ve been thinking about how you would like to kiss your killer, running your hands through his silky hair while he shoots you in the forehead,_ his unhelpful brain quips, and he can’t really disagree. He thinks that there must be something really fucked up inside of him if the thought of Akechi killing him doesn’t immediately make him run for the hills. There must be something _really_ fucked up in him if the thought instead kinda turns him on, makes the ridiculous crush he has on the detective even _worse_.

If he tried to explain _that_ to someone else, he’d get sent to a mental ward. The kind where they put the really fucked up ones in straight jackets for their own safety.

If he could put it into simple terms, it would probably be along the lines of: “Being murdered by someone means that I have somehow become an integral part of that person’s life. I have irritated them enough that they want to end me personally. Or, alternatively, I’ve done something to them that they can’t forget. Something so impactful that they won’t forget even after I’m gone, and being part of another person’s life like that is thrilling.”

It’s fucked up that even the malicious want of ‘I want to kill you,’ is a want that Akira craves, _needs._

For all his life, he’s just wanted to be wanted, needed by other people. That’s why he is the way he is—why he spends all his free time helping other people with their problems, runs himself ragged, puts himself in danger for their sakes. It’s why he curls in on himself, hiding behind too-thin walls that threaten to collapse at the merest breeze at the idea that when everyone finds their feet, solve all of their problems, that they’ll just throw him away. He isn’t needed, after all. 

It’s not like that with Akechi.

It had been simple but powerful attraction, at first. Akechi was a pretty face, and Akira was--is-- hopelessly attracted to him. But as they spent more time together, Akira found out that Akechi didn’t really want his help, or need it really. He looked at the thief and saw _him_ , got to know him even as he hid his true self beneath his polite mask, even as he tried to dig information about the Phantom Thieves out of him, even as he planned to kill him for some unknown mastermind. He saw him for who he was, whatever that might be. There was no fear of Akechi abandoning him. He wasn’t needed.

And for the first time, Akira was okay with that.

Akira often thought of himself as like a mirror. When people looked at him, talked to him, they saw only themselves, and how they could use him to rid themselves of their blemishes, to make their reflections look better. His true self was curled up on the other side of the glass, unable to touch. He called out to the people on the other side, cried, banged on the glass, howled, but they did not hear him. A barrier was between them, one his own making, but he had long forgotten how to destroy it.

Had he ever made a true connection with anyone? Or is it just phantom warmth shared between glass, Akira reaching out and laying his hand on other’s, only for even that paltry comfort to disappear?

Akechi took one look at him and promptly reached through the glass like it wasn’t even there. He grasped Akira’s hand, and he felt for the first time what true warmth was supposed to feel like.

“It’s fine,” Ann’s voice calls, breaking through his thoughts. She looks at him sympathetically, and Akira could feel that phantom heat under his skin. “You have a lot to worry about. I get it.”

By ‘a lot to worry about’, she was referring to the whole murder plot. And that was part of it, yes. Some primal part of himself was screaming for self-preservation’s sake, but it was small. The rest of his being was telling him “Akechi wants to kill you. He _wants_ you.” 

Which was an entirely different brand of distressing, one that made him shiver and blush and make a fool of himself.

Ann shoves the bowl into Akira’s hands as a sort of peace offering, a sign to show that she worries about him, even if his mind would not accept that worry as true, or for him as a person. She beckons him to follow her out of the kitchen, and he does so reluctantly, munching on another chip. 

“So!” she says, clapping her hands together, an excited glint to her eye. The sound caught Akechi’s attention from where he had been scanning a book he had pulled from the shelf. “Come to my room, gentlemen. The wardrobe awaits.”

Ann opens a door decorated so heavily with posters that there were only a few scant glimpses of the actual door underneath. She turns around and beckons them in with a wave of her hand, clearly eager to get started.

Akira rubs the back of his neck again, stealing a glance at Akechi, only for him to find that Akechi is already looking at him. The detective smiles at him, indicating in a gentlemanly manner that he should go first.

Akira quickly looks away so that his brain does not decide to send more blood to his cheeks, and tries not to make it seem like he’s escaping into Ann’s room.

The first thing he notices when he walks through the doorway is that he’s found the clutter he expected. The vanity and dresser are littered with makeup and jewelry of all kinds. There are clothes scattered all across the floor, and the desk is in a similar state of dishevelment--papers, pens, and pencils strewn about the surface haphazardly.

But what really catches Akira’s eye were the countless dresses piled on Ann’s queen size bed. They are an assortment of all the colors he can think of, all different styles but all large enough that the thief could tell at a glance that there was no way they would fit Ann.

“Uh, Ann?” Akira questions tentatively, pointing at the pile. He hopes this isn’t what he thinks it is. “What’s that all about?”

“These are the extra clothes I was talking about,” she begins innocently, confirming his fear. “The ones that are for people way taller than me.”

“You didn’t tell me that they were _dresses!”_ he whisper-exclaims.

“Oh, don’t give me that,” she says, waving him off. “You said you would! You’re already here and everything. Plus, didn’t you mention once that you’d like to try crossdressing sometime? With me here, I’ll make sure you look pretty enough that even Ryuji would drool.”

“But--” and at that moment, Akira becomes very aware of Akechi’s presence behind him as he enters, giving the room a cursory glance. He doesn’t seem to have an opinion on the state of disarray that it’s in, and moves to the bed, lifting up one of the dresses and scrutinizing it, turning it over, brows scrunched up adorably. 

Akira swiftly yanks Ann closer to himself by the elbow, turning them around and lowering his voice so that only she could hear. “ _Akechi is here,_ ” he hisses.

“Yeah, and?” she responds. 

Akira fidgets, yanking on his hair in a feeble attempt to hide his blush and the way he’s biting his lip, just shy of breaking the skin. Understanding dawns on Ann’s face before it is quickly replaced by exasperation.

“You can’t get all shy on me now!” she whines, her own lips pouting. “You promised!”

“I promised because I didn’t know Akechi would be here!” Akira counters, pulling on his curls hard enough to hurt. “You can’t do this to me, Ann. I will literally combust. Even just thinking about Akechi seeing me in a _dress_ is--!”

“Is everything alright?” Akechi’s voice breaks through their argument.

They both quickly shut their mouths, looking over their shoulders to see the detective staring at them with a polite and measured amount of concern. 

“O-oh, uhhh, it’s nothing! Everything’s cool!” Ann says, turning around and flapping her hands, as if she can swat away the fact that they were talking about him behind his back, terrible acting coming into play. Akira sees how Akechi can’t hold back a cringe, before catching himself and plastering a smile over his features.

 _Just kill me now,_ Akira thinks, still hoping for that black hole.

“I see,” Akechi responds, putting the dress he was currently holding back onto the bed. He turns his gaze on Ann. “Takamaki-chan, if I may be so bold, none of these would seem like they would fit you. You should dispose of them all. Oh, and you should also tell your modeling agency to make sure they pick the right sizes for you next time. This is frankly unacceptable.”

“Oh!” Ann says, hand to her mouth, looking a little surprised by Akechi’s little outburst. Akira is a little surprised too, if he’s being honest. Why would Akechi care about Ann getting dresses that are the wrong size? “They’re not for me. Well, I mean, yeah the agency sent these to me, and yeah, they’re the wrong size, but it’s ok! Akira said he would try some on, so it’s not a total waste!” 

The look of utter, genuine surprise on Akechi’s face, eyes comically wide, lips parted in silent astonishment, is almost worth the embarrassment of being outed right in front of his crush. 

Almost. 

If he wasn’t blushing before, he’s positive that he is now.

 _It’s just a fever,_ he lies to himself.

Akechi is quick to regain his composure, coughing into his gloved hand and clearing his throat, trying to play off the fact that his mask slipped and he let a genuine expression play on his face for once. “I...see,” he says, looking at Akira, something indecipherable flitting across his eyes. “I can see now why you invited me over, Takamaki-chan. My insight could prove valuable in this endeavor.”

“Right?” Ann exclaims, clapping her hands together excitedly. “That’s what I thought! I figured since you had to go on TV you’d know stuff about this, and I was right!”

“You flatter me,” Akechi says humbly, but Akira can tell that he’s secretly pleased. “I will say, that while I’m not as knowledgeable as you, Takamaki-chan, my grasp on fashion is not so limited as to just men’s wear. The least I can do is help coordinate accessories and makeup--I can even help apply it. I’ve had lots of practice on myself. Applying it to another person shouldn’t be too challenging.”

Akira doesn’t have the wherewithal to hide his astonishment. “You wear makeup?”

“It’s essentially a requirement when I go in front of the camera,” Akechi responds, just a touch defensive, gaze turning sharp. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“No!” Akira shouts, failing to control the volume of his voice in his haste to amend his mistake. “I just--wasn’t expecting it, is all.”

“I suppose,” Akechi begins, tension draining almost imperceptibly from his shoulders, “that’s fair.”

They stare at each other, and Akechi most certainly does not look up and down Akira’s body quickly, as if he is imagining how he would look in a dress, all dolled-up with makeup and gloves and high heels, and jewelry.

“Mmm, I can’t wait anymore!” Ann interrupts loudly. She pulls out a random white dress from the pile. “Here, Akira, try this one on first!”

The garment is shoved into his arms unceremoniously before he’s getting pushed towards the attached bathroom, the walls painted a bright pink and the counter as equally as cluttered as the rest of the bedroom.

The door is shut behind him as soon as he’s through the threshold. “Don’t keep us waiting!” Ann’s muffled voice says, and he sighs as he adjusts his glasses, resigning himself to his embarrassing fate.

He scans the small room for a clear space, the counter littered of open bottles of product. While he could lay the dress on top of those, there’s no way he’s risking getting the pristine white fabric stained--who knows if Ann’s agency will make him pay for it, and he can’t exactly afford it. He spent a fortune on a better light-sabre and ray gun for Akechi, and his poor wallet is crying in despair.

He has to settle for closing the lid of the toilet, as even the top of it is cluttered with toilet paper and at least five different kinds of air fresheners.

“Would it kill you to organize a bit…?” Akira mutters to himself, delicately placing the dress on the closed lid.

As he slowly strips, feeling extremely self-conscious, he tries very hard to not think about how Akechi is on the other side of the door. He tries very hard to ignore the fact that the only thing separating Akechi’s eyes from his mostly nude figure is a door. A thin, flimsy, glorified piece of wood. 

He does not shiver. He does _not._

Akira lifts up the dress with quaking hands, turning it over and unzipping the back. He bites his lip, regrets ever agreeing to this, and steps into it.

He pulls it up, and then he has to stop. The waistline of the fabric is tight, meant for someone with a slim waist. But that’s not the problem here. Akira’s always had a comparatively slim waist, unlike most guys his age.

It’s just that his ass is _too big._ It won’t fit.

Shit. Shit.

He takes off his glasses, shoving aside bottles of makeup remover and tubes of mascara to make room for his frames on the counter. He bunches the dress up as delicately as he can, instead pulling it over his head.

The waistline gives him some trouble around his shoulders, but those are far more maneuverable than the globes of flesh on his backside, so with a bit of wiggling he manages to get the dress into place. He zips it all the way up his neck, and it fits a little tight but not so much so that it’s uncomfortable. The material is soft and despite the snugness, it doesn’t draw attention to the fact that Akira has a distinct lack of boobs--the dress is apparently designed specifically with the fact that the model would be tall and flat-chested in mind.

Akira takes a moment to look at himself in the mirror. He’s honestly a little surprised he doesn’t look as bad as he thought he would. The dress accentuates the curve of his sides, and the way it wraps around his neck draws attention to his face. 

Then the edge of the dress teases the back of his thighs, a sensation he hasn’t felt before, having only worn jeans or pajama bottoms his entire life. Every shift of his body causes the fringe to sway and just barely skim the skin. It tickles.

It does _not_ make him shiver.

God, how do women deal with this?

He spends far too long trying to gather his composure, unwilling to face Akechi with such obvious embarrassment on his face. 

A knock on the door startles him. “Akira, are you ok in there?” Ann’s muffled voice says, a drip of concern in her tone. “Need help with the zipper or something?”

“I’m fine!” he says too quickly. He takes a breath in an attempt to steady himself. It doesn’t do much. “I’ll be out in a second!”

His bare feet are cold on the tile of the bathroom. Ann’s bedroom is carpeted. He saw a fluffy rug just outside the door. If he leaves, he can warm them up there.

That’s what he tells himself as sucks in a breath, very slowly turning the knob, easing the door open on creaky hinges, positive that he’s coming down with a fever.

He steps onto the rug, looking down at his toes.

“Ooh,” Ann says and Akira can practically hear the smirk on her lips as she walks closer and makes a circle around him. “Not bad.”

Akira wraps one arm around himself, the other one reaching up to fidget nervously with his hair. He can’t make his mouth form words, so he bites his lip instead.

“Kurusu-kun,” Akechi says, and the thief tries not to let his flinch show. “Lift up your head.”

It doesn’t sound like a request. The detective’s voice has taken on a hard edge, tone like that of an interrogator. It sounds like he’s slipped into a different role entirely; one of authority, experience, and pragmatism. He’s here to get a job done, and he’s not going to let anyone else slow him down.

Akira tries not to grip the fabric of the dress anxiously as he follows the command, letting go of his hair to wrap around himself self-consciously. He hates how his gaze automatically, hopelessly seeks out the person he always seems to be looking for.

Akechi is standing a little bit away, hand on his chin, eyes darting up and down Akira’s figure as if he is appraising an important piece of evidence.

It’s only been three seconds, and it already feels like Akechi’s figured out all his secrets. Which is not helped when the detective’s eyes find his and stay there, taking in his face in all it’s blushing glory.

Akira swears he sees a smirk, but it’s gone before he can be too sure.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without glasses, Kurusu-kun,” Akechi says, a note of teasing in his voice so light it might as well not be there.

Akira’s hand immediately darts to his face to check, and lo and behold, he forgot his glasses on the counter. The realization of being so exposed causes his embarrassment to extend beyond his cheeks, dusting his nose and his ears.

“You really do look good without those stupid things,” Ann adds, getting up in his personal bubble, scrutinizing his face. “Don’t know why you even wear them, to be honest.”

There’s an amused glint to her eye. Someone’s clearly having fun at his expense.

“What do you think of the dress, Akechi-kun?” she asks, turning to him. He rubs his chin.

“It fits him quite well,” he begins. “The fabric accentuates his sides nicely, and the high neck expertly hides the fact that he’s a man, while also showing off the curves of his neck.”

They’re talking about him as if he isn’t even there, which he is actually grateful for. If they don’t expect him to respond, then he can try to stomp down on his mortification and wrangle his racing thoughts, attempting to make himself presentable.

“I think so too,” Ann agrees. She takes a couple of steps back, giving Akira some much needed breathing room. “It doesn’t look too loose either, which is what I was worried about the most.”

“Just so,” Akechi responds. “There is one problem, though. Kurusu-kun is far too pale for the color. It washes him out. I’m thinking that perhaps either black or red, or maybe even a dark blue or purple dress would be a better option.”

“So white’s out,” Ann replies, moving to the bed and picking out every white dress that she has and promptly throwing them onto the floor in a haphazard pile, along with other similarly light colors, like yellow and orange. “No problem. I have lots of red and black dresses, since I think those would work best with his black hair.”

Akechi nods, moving to join Ann in sifting through the pile of clothes on the bed. “Why don’t we try black first? I want to see if we should go with something more bold should the color be too dull.”

“I like the way you think!” Ann says, reaching into the pile and pulling out a type of romper. She lays it across her arm before digging in the pile further, searching around for something. “Ugh, where are they? I know they’re in here somewhere…”

Her eyes light up and she pulls, hand emerging with three belts in her palm.

Oh, God. What are they going to make him _wear?_

“What is _that?_ ” he somehow manages to say, and there is _not_ a hint of fear in his voice.

“Oh, don’t be a baby,” his tormentor says, shoving the garment and belts into his arms and pushing him towards the bathroom in a repeat of earlier events. “It’s not going to bite. Besides, you’ll look great! I’ve got amazing taste after all.”

Akira seriously wants to doubt that statement, but he can’t really argue when even he had begrudgingly admitted to himself that he didn’t look _horrible_ when he had stared at his reflection in her mirror earlier.

He’s shoved past the threshold and the door is once again slammed shut in a repeat of earlier events. “Let us know if you need any help, that one’s a bit tricky!” 

Akira lets out a deep sigh of both relief and exasperation. At least in here Akechi can’t see how flustered he is. His eyes drift to his reflection automatically, and seeing the red dusting his cheeks only makes this entire situation worse.

Where was that fucking black hole when you needed it?

Heaving another bone-deep sigh, he sets the dress on the toilet seat again, swiftly unzipping the dress he was wearing. His last hope is to try to get this over with as quickly as possible.

After a brief crisis of finding a space to put the dress on, eventually just setting it underneath the black one, he lifts the dark garment up and scrutinizes it. It looks like...a fancy pair of pajamas, just with shorts instead of pants. There’s no zipper, and the buttons on the front are only decorative. The only way he can put this on is to step into it.

He prays to every god out there that it would fit this time. If he’s going to have to explain that his ass being too big as the reason as to why the dress won’t fit, he will die. He will overheat, all the water in his body boiling and steaming from himself, leaving him bloodless and misshapen. 

At least in death, there is solace from shame and embarrassment. Right?

Only one way to find out.

He swallows and steps into the romper.

The gods he prayed to have granted him mercy. It’s loose enough that he can fit it over his backside, and he sighs in relief, but as he pulls it up, he realizes that he can’t lift it over his shoulders. Or rather, that there are no shoulders. He slips his arms into the long, collared sleeves, feeling distinctly exposed as the ‘V’ of the front shows off his collarbone. He’s never worn anything that’s shown so much of his skin before. It feels scandalous.

Seriously, how do women keep up with this?

The whole thing fits loosely, except for the lower region. Again, it seems that this garment is designed for someone who isn’t quite so ‘gifted’ back there. The shorts ride precariously high on his thighs and he pulls them down, only for them to ride back up again.

The top half keeps sliding down, and he sees small round hooks attached around the shoulder area. He guesses that that’s what the two smaller belts are for. He grabs them and fumbles with them, eventually finding the clasps on the underside of the black leather.

He tries to clip them on, but he keeps missing, or his fingers hurt from keeping the clasp open and he has to stop to recover before trying again. He swears he’s dextrous most of the time. He blames his shaky clammy hands and his racing heart.

He keeps trying for the life of himself to clip the first one on, and he somehow manages to get it hooked, repeating the process for the other belt not nearly quickly enough--and then he realizes that they attach on the other side too. 

The thief could barely get them on in the front and he could _see_ the hooks. He frankly doubts he’s going to be able to do the same in the back.

He’s a stubborn idiot most of the time, he will admit, but in this he’s willing to swallow his pride. If only to get out of this predicament just a little bit faster. But he’s not so far gone that he’s going to verbally ask for it.

He rifles through his discarded pants’ pocket, pulling out his phone and shooting a quick text at Ann for assistance.

**Gay mess (yourself, dumbass):** ann i need help

There is a brief amount of time as he hears the ding on the other side, before his phone buzzes in response.

**Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** why are you texting me why didn’t you just ask

 **Gay mess (yourself, dumbass):** because i am a coward

 **Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** ur such a baby

 **Gay mess (yourself, dumbass):** i know please just help me ill buy you crepes

The thief hears Ann’s exasperated sigh through the door.

**Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** fine

 **Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** are you decent

 **Gay mess (yourself, dumbass):** yes, all my boy parts are covered

Akira hears some sort of discussion happening on the other side before his phone buzzes again. 

**Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** sending in the calvary

 **Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** good luck, tiger ;)

Akira blinks. Good luck...?

A knock on the door startles him.

“Kurusu-kun, may I come in?” comes Akechi’s muffled voice. “Takamaki-chan said you needed help with the belts. Seeing as she claimed to have less experience with them than I do, I thought I could be of assistance.”

Akira’s mind is wiped completely blank (except for the one distinct thought that he would kill Ann later and some rather filthy thoughts about why Akechi is experienced with belts), and yet he can feel his thoughts racing far too quickly, buzzing around his head like flies and drowning out all rational thought.

“You can’t!” he somehow manages to spit out around his thick tongue. 

“...why not?” Akechi asks, politely enough.

“Because…!” Akira starts, only to find that he can’t think of a good excuse. The detective most likely already knows that he’s covered, and there’s not any other feasible reason that Akechi would buy. Everything else his brain supplies (suddenly claiming that he’s sick, that he used the restroom and it stinks now, etc.) all sound stupid and he doesn’t really need to make himself look like any more of a fool than he already has. “Because…”

There is a beat of awkward silence, followed by a barely audible huff of breath. Did...did Akechi just sigh in exasperation? “I’m coming in,” he says, and Akira panics. He’s not ready! 

“W-wait--!” he yelps, leaping to block the door, but as he jumps his foot gets caught in his discarded pants he hadn’t bothered to pick up, and he trips over himself, landing painfully. 

The door opens, and Akira looks up with wide eyes to find that Akechi is staring at him like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. 

Akira is frozen on the ground, pinned by Akechi’s stare. He feels like one of those butterflies in those glass cases.

“Something wrong, Akechi-kun?” Akira hears Ann’s voice.

“He’s fine, Takamaki-chan,” Akechi answers for him, not taking his eyes from Akira’s prone figure. “Just a little fall. I’ll take care of him.”

The way Akechi says ‘take care’ sounds completely different on his tongue than the rest of his words do. The others sound polite, measured, fake, plastic. When he says ‘take care’, he sounds...heady, just a touch unhinged. Akira realizes that this is probably the first time he’s heard Akechi’s true voice, and even then the true meaning of the words are hidden under a thin veneer of false pleasantry. 

It fools Ann. “Okay! Don’t take too long!”

It doesn’t fool Akira. Akechi is planning something.

 _I wonder what he’s going to do to me,_ his mind thinks, the part that doesn’t mind that the detective wants to kill him.

Akira doesn’t know if he wants to find out.

Before he can do much about it, the detective is stepping into the small space threateningly and closing the door with as much force as is appropriate for the situation.

There’s adrenaline suddenly pumping in his veins, and Akira finds himself automatically scrambling backwards in the ‘flight’ response, until his back hits the lip of the ceramic tub, hand reaching up to the ‘V’ in the fabric and bunching it there, the other reaching down to fruitlessly pull at the shorts in an attempt to cover and protect himself.

Akechi blinks. His eyes follow the movement of Akira’s hand, staring at his exposed thighs. He pulls pointlessly on the fabric again.

Akira doesn’t dare to breathe, not taking his eyes off of the way the detective drags his eyes up his body, lingering on where his hand is covering his chest, before meeting Akira’s gaze.

“...are you alright?” Akechi eventually asks into the quiet when Akira doesn’t speak. The question confuses him, because he actually sounds a little bit genuinely concerned.

The detective blinks again, and Akira figures he should say _something_.

“Y-yeah,” his voice raspy for some reason. “I’m fine.”

“Can you stand?” the brunette asks him, taking slow step after slow step until he is right in front of the raven’s prone form.

Can he? Akira doesn’t know. _Does he want me to?_ “I don’t know,” is what Akira responds with.

“Let me help you up, then,” Akechi says, and again he hears something heady and violent underneath the way he utters the words ‘help you’.

Akira swallows. Akechi offers his hand for him to take.

Akira stares.

The proffered hand sits in his face, and as his eyes rove over the creases in the leather gloves and the way one of his fingers is slightly crooked his mind conjures up the sensation of what it felt like to hold his hand for the first time and it’s really unfair to expect him to resist that and god Akechi is looking at him like he wants to tear him apart and that’s really hot and fuck, fuck, _fuck._

It’s fine to touch him, right…? 

_Yes, take it,_ his mind insists. Akira’s resistance is melting away piece by piece the longer Akechi stares at him.

Akira bites his lip and takes his hand before he lets himself think his way into doing something idiodic, and therefore ruining whatever is happening between them. Akechi pulls him up with almost no effort on Akira’s part, his grip strong, muscles flexing through his shirt.

His hand is just like how Akira remembers it--warm, soft, big. But there’s something different, too. The way he’s holding onto his hand feels more possessive. Downright ravenous.

They hang on for seconds. 

One. 

Two. 

Three.

Akira doesn’t really want to let go, but he figures he should--or else Akechi might think he’s a creep or something. When he loosens his hand to let go, however, the detective’s grip only tightens, pulling their conjoined hands closer to himself, causing Akira to look up sharply and swallow when he sees the greedy glint in his eyes. The back of Akira’s hand resting just in front of Akechi’s lips. 

“Wh-what are y-you doing…?” Akira asks quietly, trying to keep himself from shivering when he feels warm breath ghost across his knuckles, and failing.

Akechi closes his eyes in lieu of an answer, pressing his searing lips to the back of his hand.

Akira’s eyes are going to fall out of their sockets, they’re so wide. What the fuck is happening. Is this actually happening right now? Is Akechi _actually_ kissing him right now?

 _This isn’t a dream, is it?_ his mind wonders weakly.

Akira feels electricity spark to life underneath where Akechi’s lips are touching him, zipping up his arm and down his spine, igniting a fire that he didn’t know was there. The flames burn pleasantly inside him. This has to be a dream, because there’s no way that Akechi just shivered like he felt it too. 

Akechi’s scorching lips brand him for one, two, three. 

Four. Five. 

Six...seven...eight.

“Your hand is very warm, Kurusu-kun,” he finally says, lips skimming against skin with each word as he opens his eyes, the red lighting up with something predatory. He smirks and Akira gets the distinct impression that he’s being teased. “Are you sure you aren’t coming down with something? Your face is incredibly flushed…”

Akira opens and closes his mouth like a fish. He _is_ being teased. 

By the Detective Prince. By Akechi Goro. 

What the fuck is he supposed to do?

 _Say something witty,_ his mind supplies.

“Shouldn’t you be more worried about yourself?” the thief somehow manages to say without stumbling over his words at all, even with a thick tongue. “Your l-lips are very warm after all…”

Akira thinks he deserves a pat on the back for having the guts to say that. Even if he did stutter.

Akechi blinks, and his expression turns warmer, but no less intense.

“You never fail to surprise me, Kurusu-kun,” Akechi whispers, finally letting go. Before Akira has a chance to miss the warmth he’s stepping closer, whispering into his ear. “Now then, could you turn around?”

He quickly does so, swallowing the sudden flood of drool in his mouth. He’s so hopeless.

“Eager, aren’t you?” Akechi remarks, and he starts at the feeling of Akechi dragging his fingertips up his sides, sparks zipping everywhere he touches. He eventually reaches his shoulders, pressing against the skin lightly, heat seeping through the leather and making him shiver. Akechi clasps the loose belts that Akira had forgotten even existed into place with surprisingly practiced ease. 

“Tell me something, Kurusu-kun,” he breathes into the shell of Akira’s ear when he finishes, hands spreading across his shoulder blades, as if he wants to feel everything the thief has to offer. “Have you ever worn something like this before?”

He’s so _close_. Akira can feel the heat radiating off of him, his breath ghosting on his exposed neck, warm as it goes out, cool as it goes back in. His gloved fingers brush his skin lightly as they pull on the belts, making sure they are secure over his shoulders.

“No,” Akira answers breathily, hyper-aware of every movement the detective makes behind him. “Have you?”

“...once or twice,” Akechi mutters with an edge of heat in his voice. Something soft touches the nape of his neck. 

Viscous heat erupts from the point of contact when Akira realizes that Akechi’s lips are touching him again.

The raven shudders when he feels Akechi’s tongue press hotly against his skin, flicking over the skin again and again, as if he’s trying to get a feel of what Akira tastes like.

“Did...you want to…?” Akira whispers shakily, like they’re sharing dirty secrets.

“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” Akechi states just as quietly, removing his mouth from his neck. “Turn back around.”

Akira really doesn’t want to turn around and expose his blazing face, but it’s not like he has much of a choice--and it would be far worse to be manhandled into turning around. Akechi’s barely touched him and his legs already feel like they’re going to give out at any second.

He turns around slowly to find that Akechi’s face is only a few inches away. When they’re this close, Akira notices that Akechi has _freckles,_ a litany of them littered across his cheeks adorably, faint underneath a thin, fading layer of concealer.

Knowing that kind of detail feels far more intimate and private than anything Akechi’s been doing to him for the past few minutes, and it sends a fresh wave of heat through his body. 

Is it bad that he wants to kiss all of them?

The detective steps closer, reaching around his middle to loop the last belt around him.

 _Hot,_ his mind thinks, reduced to monosyllables. _Close._

He sucks in a little breath when he feels it tighten around him, unable to take his eyes off of the way the detective’s tongue sticks out a little as he fiddles with getting the black leather secure.

“There,” Akechi murmurs, all of his attention directed back at Akira’s eyes now that he’s finished. “Perfect.”

Akira figures he should thank him. For what, he’s not quite sure. “Thank you,” he says anyways, discovering that there are flecks of gold in Akechi’s red-brown eyes.

Akira absentmindedly thinks that he would happily throw his life away to stare at Akechi’s face if it meant he could discover every facet, every contour, every hidden curve and freckle and mole and scar he hid under layers and layers of makeup. If he could lift that mask from his face, wipe away his walls and explore until the day he died, then maybe he could understand why he was going to be killed.

What was Akechi doing…? Wasn’t he supposed to kill him in a few days? Why was he kissing him, touching him, whispering in his ear like he was made out of glass, like he was the most precious thing in the world?

Something shifted in Akira’s head. If he was going to ‘die’ in a few days, why not be selfish?

Maybe that’s what Akechi was thinking too. Akira had no idea why the detective would choose him, of all people, choose the leader, choose the one fated to die, but...

But if Akechi wanted to take, wanted to take from _him,_ Akira was willing to give. If there was one thing the raven was good at, it was that.

“Mmm,” Akechi hums, reaching up and running a fingertip down the bridge of Akira’s nose.

“You really do look good without glasses, you know.”

The compliment renews Akira’s fading blush, but he does not look away. He _is_ rendered speechless, though, and Akechi smiles a smug little smirk. “But I’d wager you would look better with some color on your lips.”

Akechi pulls a tube of lipstick out of his back pocket, and before Akira can question why the hell he carries lipstick around, he's grabbed Akira's chin firmly enough to indicate that he's in charge here. He pops the cap off the lipstick, lifting it up to rest on his bottom lip.

It's cold as he strokes it across his lip, and it feels weird and immediately he wants to lick it off.

“Don’t do that,” Akechi orders when he sees Akira trying to do just that thing, and Akira huffs through his nose because he doesn’t think Akechi will appreciate him moving his lips at the moment. Akechi's sticking his tongue out in concentration again, and that’s cute as fuck, so he's not really complaining. 

"This is a nice color on you, really," Akechi remarks when he's finished decorating his lips. "I wonder how it would look on me..."

But Akechi puts the cap back on the tube, returning it to his pocket. "Why are you putting it away?" Akira asks, confused.

"Don't need it," the detective smirks. "I have a pair of perfectly good lips right here."

And then before Akira can process the words, he's being kissed, Akechi is mouthing against him, smearing as much of the color as he can on his own warm, soft lips.

He pulls back before the thief can understand what’s going on, and there is most definitely a bright red tone to the detective’s lips now.

"You just kissed me," Akira breathes, because he thinks saying it out loud might make it easier for his brain to accept. _"You just kissed me._ "

Akechi licks his lips, making even more of a mess. "No need to sound so surprised, Kurusu-kun. What did you think was going to happen?"

“I--you--uh...didn’t think you would want to kiss me?” he babbles. He sounds like a fool.

“Rather foolish of you,” Akechi answers aptly, stepping closer and Akira takes a step back because oh god he’s overheating he’s going to melt onto the floor and be a sad little puddle Ann will have to clean up later, and dear _lord_ why won’t Akechi stop _getting closer to him?_

His back hits the wall, and the detective quickly cages him in by slamming both of his palms against the wall next to his head, bending his elbows slowly until their noses are brushing and all Akira can see is the deep-seated thirst in his eyes and the fear and anticipation reflected in his own.

“So?” the detective questions, like they’re talking about the weather. “How do I look?”

The thief’s eyes are inevitably drawn to Akechi’s lips, like how an actual thief is drawn to treasure. Akira doesn't know why the mess of saliva and makeup makes him look better, or why it’s such a turn on, but _it is_.

“It…” Akira starts, searching through his messy thoughts to try and come up with words to do justice to the sight before him. He ultimately fails. “It looks... _good.”_

Akechi laughs softly, derisively.

“Too far gone to find better words, Kurusu? That’s _adorable_ ,” he murmurs condescendingly, moving one of his hands and caressing the side of Akira’s face. “You look so cute, especially with all this red covering your face. You look _debauched.”_ He lowers his thumb and traces it through his ruined lipstick, leaving a red streak on the black leather when he pulls away, looking a lot like blood. “It makes me want to _ruin_ you.”

It should not send a shiver down his spine to hear those words. Akira’s next breath comes out in stutters anyways.

Akechi leans in impossibly closer, locking lips with him again, destroying the makeup even more. Akira manages to kiss back, because this time he isn’t blindsided by the fact that Akechi kissed him first. The detective grunts, kissing him hard enough that the back of Akira’s head is being pushed painfully into the wall.

God, it hurts _so good._ Akira wants him to sink his fingers into his hair and pull until his neck is bent at an impossible angle, wants to feel the detective’s nails rake bloody streaks into his skin, wants his teeth to leave bruises of possession all over his body. 

_Fuck,_ Akira thinks. _Fuck._

He still can’t quite believe this is actually happening.

Akechi sticks his thigh in between his own two legs, forcing them apart and pushing against his hard member. Akira gasps at the sensation, not having realized that he’d gotten hard at some point, and Akechi forces his tongue in, and it feels so hot--Akira can feel him spreading around the lipstick, staining everything it touches, coating the inside of his mouth with saliva and chemicals.

It tastes terrible, but Akechi’s tongue is in his mouth and that tastes _amazing,_ so they cancel each other out.

Akira whines when Akechi pulls away for air--if he could die choking on Akechi’s tongue, he’d die happy. 

“You...kissed me again,” Akira pants, his entire body like jelly. He’s positive he’d be on the floor if he wasn’t leaning most of his weight against the wall. 

“Yes, _Kurusu-kun_. What an astute observation,” the detective teases with a cheeky smirk that has Akira heating up in all sorts of places, but mostly in his dick as Akechi grinds his thigh harder against him. “Do you want another?”

“A-Akechi,” Akira moans, reaching up with his free hand to grab onto something, anything. He settles for grabbing a weak fistful of Akechi’s shirt. “Please, I…”

“Use your words,” the bastard commands while sliding his hand into the raven’s black curls and gripping harshly, just like he wants, eliciting a wanton whimper from him. “What do you want me to do to you?”

Akira has no words. He’s been rendered speechless.

“You’re quiet,” Akechi hisses, and the pleasant grinding on his dick stops. Akira whines, and tries to wiggle around to get more of that pleasant friction, but Akechi grips his shoulder harshly with his free hand, slamming it against the wall and effectively stopping him. “Why don’t I come up with some options for you, since you’re so utterly incompetent?”

Akira just trembles. He’s going to burst into flames--there’s a fire in Akechi’s eyes that threatens to scorch and burn and sear and Akira doesn’t really want to be anywhere else.

“You always stare at me with this hopeful look in your eye, like a damn dog,” he mutters as he leans in and bites Akira’s lip hard enough to draw blood, more red, more red. “Ever since that day we met. You look like you want me to praise you, pet you while we lie in bed together, kiss you when you come home.” He pulls on Akira’s hair experimentally, earning a quiet moan. “That’s too fucking bad, Kurusu. I’m not like that, not really. The sweet little Detective Prince you know is a fake, a lie. Are you disappointed?”

Akira, even through the haze of pain and pleasure, can tell that this isn’t just foreplay. Akechi is asking him a real question, and if he answers incorrectly, he’s going to lose a lot more than just the promise of sex.

Akira licks his lips, and doesn’t really think about his answer--he doesn’t need to. “I could...never be disappointed with you,” he rasps, and he takes satisfaction from the way Akechi’s eyes widen slightly. “You’re my rival. The...only time I would ever be disappointed...is if you lose to anyone except me. And you...won’t let that happen, will you?”

Akechi yanks hard on Akira’s hair, and he yelps, feeling pain and electricity combine into a heady mixture of pleasure that makes him shudder. “You’re unbelievable,” the detective growls hatefully, but Akira knows he’s said the right thing because Akechi is smiling and licking his own lips. “And so shameless,” he adds as he leans in and drags his tongue over the vein in Akira’s neck, the wet heat causing him to squeeze tightly around Akechi’s thigh, seeking more friction.

“You’re squeezing me so tightly, Kurusu,” Akechi remarks, grip loosening somewhat. “Do you like this _that_ much?”

 _“Yes,”_ Akira breathes, because he wants Akechi to keep going, and he won’t keep going if he doesn’t talk. 

“Whore,” Akechi spits in his ear. “You’re so filthy. I can feel myself getting dirty just by touching you.”

The raven whines, and then Akechi is undoing the belt he literally just finished securing into place not five minutes ago.

"You--you're undoing all your hard work," Akira breathes as Akechi impatiently tears through the fake buttons, popping on the floor with little _tinks._

"It's of little consequence," Akechi hisses, pulling on Akira’s hair so that he can get at his neck. Akira pants as the detective sucks at his skin, pinching it between his perfect teeth and leaving a dark mark there, laving over it with his tongue and leaving another mess of spit and fading lipstick behind.

"You...you're going to have to pay for this..." Akira manages as Akechi runs his gloved fingers over his exposed chest, leather teasing at the ruined edges of the dress.

"Also inconsequential," he hisses, shifting the thigh that's in between Akira's legs just right, and Akira can't hold back a quiet, breathy moan.

"We...we're gonna...get caught," he tremulously says.

"If your filthy body wasn't telling me the exact opposite, I'd think you didn't want this," Akechi snarks, pointedly tapping on a pert nipple. "Just keep your whore mouth shut. You wouldn’t want Takamaki-chan to find out what disgusting things we’re doing in her bathroom, now would you?”

Akira knows it’s a fucking threat. If he gets them caught, the brunette is going to make him regret it.

He kinda wants to get caught--but he can’t disobey, and neither would he want to, if he could.

Akira whimpers quietly, muffled by his closed lips. He can taste the ruined lipstick. Akechi smirks and leans closer, hot breath caressing the shell of Akira’s ear, his clothed chest rubbing against Akira’s exposed one. 

“Good boy,” Akechi whispers, like Akira is nothing more than the muck underneath his feet. It sends shivers down his spine and blood into his dick--he’s pretty sure he’s stained the fabric with his precum, further ruining the garment.

Ann knocking on the door shatters the air.

“Uh, you’re taking a long time in there,” her worried voice comes through. “Are you guys okay?”

Akechi doesn’t _fucking stop._ He’s shoved aside the hand Akira had forgotten was still bunched around the ‘V’ of the dress, and is now kissing and licking his collarbone and chest, smearing red everywhere and making him look like a piece of art.

Akira can’t think around how hot Akechi’s mouth is on his skin.

“We’re…” he manages, and only someone as dumb as Ryuji wouldn’t be able to pick up on how out of breath and raspy he sounds, but he plows on anyways, because he’s stubborn. “We’re fine! Just...a little busy...with makeup.”

The silence on the other side tells him that she doesn’t believe any of that bullshit, which is rude, since it’s somewhat true.

Akechi smirks up at him like the bastard that he is, and _bites._

“Aah--!” Akira can’t help but whine, and he slaps a hand over his mouth, too late.

There is silence on the other side of the door, Akechi moving to wrap his lips around one of his nipples, scorching tongue lavishing the bud.

“O-oh! Um, r-right!” Ann interrupts, her fake acting never failing to make him cringe, but then Akechi closes his teeth around the sensitive skin and _pulls_ and he has to bite his own tongue before he incriminates himself any more than he already has. “I just remembered Shiho invited me out earlier today, and I gotta go! I’ll see you guys later! Uh, uh, the key will be on the counter, just lock up when you leave! Bye!”

Akira can hear her feet thundering away, and he sends a glare down at Akechi, to which he responds with a smirk and another bite, this time sucking on the wound loudly now that they don’t have an audience.

“Looks like she found out,” Akechi mutters darkly, moving his hand to grope harshly at his ass. “You really couldn’t have kept your disgusting voice down?” 

“It’s your...fucking fault,” Akira pants, hands gripping at Akechi’s chest and pulling him closer, desperate to feel as much of the detective as he can now that Ann isn’t here to ruin the moment.

“What a troublesome little harlot you are,” Akechi says, but he doesn’t deny it. He lifts his leg up so high that Akira’s toes barely touch the floor--and now Akira has to lean forward and wrap his arms around the detective so he doesn’t fall onto the floor. Pressure throbs in his gut at the feeling of his dick being grinded against clothes and Akechi’s thigh.

“Akechi...!” Akira whines, kissing Akechi’s neck, staining it red. Every blemish, every freckle, every beauty mark he finds he lavishes with attention, and he is rewarded by Akechi’s groan, running his fingernails over the raven’s sensitive scalp, making him shiver.

And then Akechi is palming him through the romper with his free hand, swallowing Akira’s subsequent moan as he kisses him, longue lapping at his split lip like he’s dying of thirst and his blood is sweet poison that will mercifully end his suffering.

“What is it that you want?” he whispers gently when they part, juxtaposed by the way he tightly grips at Akira’s cock, fabric chafing and burning as he experimentally pumps him. “How do you want me to fulfill your depraved fantasies?”

“Please…” Akira begs, unable to string more than two words together as his stomach throbs with pleasure, coiling, coiling, coiling ever tighter.

“Use your words, trash,” the detective growls, eagerly lapping up the overwhelmed tears that spill involuntarily from Akira’s silver eyes.

 _“Don’t stop,”_ Akira whimpers, bringing his lips up to kiss Akechi again. He obliges him, increasing his pace and running his other hand expertly over Akira’s body. His gloved hand traces over his chest, playing lightly with each exposed nipple, running over the ridges of his ribcage, before coming back up and slowly wrapping his fingers around his delicate neck, squeezing lightly on the sides, not enough to actually cut off his air, but enough to send another sinful burst of heat straight to his cock.

“So demanding,” Akechi murmurs against his ruined lips. “I suppose I can do this one thing for you. Not that you deserve it, but you’re lucky I’m feeling generous today.”

Akechi pumps him mercilessly, fingers tightening around both his neck and his cock, once again shoving his tongue into Akira’s panting mouth.

Akira can’t last long. He didn’t think he’d enjoy being so thoroughly played with like this, with the detective whispering foul things in his ears, his deft hands touching him with just the right amount of force, kissing him like he’s trying to steal the air straight from his lungs.

He thought he’d be the one coaxing Akechi into it with soft touches, little pecks on his cheeks, suggesting things with his body, hoping he would pick up on the clues. 

The way he’s coming from just a few harsh rocks of Akechi’s hips, his hand, and his thigh, is very different from what he’d been imagining, but no less amazing.

He could forget the fact that the man in front of him, making him feel the best he’s felt in...what has to be _years,_ whose same hands that were gently milking him through his orgasm, smoothing over the bruises on his neck, whose mouth was now kissing him tenderly, reverently, were the same hands that would put a gun against his hand, and the same lips that would utter words blank of any sort of emotion.

...Akira is hopeless.

He still wants to save him.

He hugs him with all of his remaining strength, hoping that somehow he can convey everything he feels through his heartbeat.

Akechi is silent, but he squeezes back just as tightly, and in his heartbeat, beating so fast against Akira’s chest, and Akira swears he can hear the quiet plea for help.

Akira is only all too willing to oblige.

* * *

Akira checks his phone as he leaves Ann’s apartment, noticing that he’s gotten one text from a very specific person.

**Sexy cat (ann you doofus):** you have so much explaining to do, you gay horny mess

He sighs as he counts the number of apologies he’s going to have to say.

He mourns his wallet. It’s going to take a lot of crepes to appease Ann.

**Author's Note:**

> ABitObsessed: God this one kicked my ass for so long. It wasn't supposed to have porn, and then it manifested itself, and then idk it was hard to get myself to write, i was lacking some motivation. The porn helped lol, and im actually happy with how it turned out! thank you for reading!
> 
> Here's my Twitter! Please be aware that it's an 18+ account!  
> https://twitter.com/ObssessedA
> 
> Blixer: neither of us have the first clue to anything about makeup or dresses, please forgive us we tried
> 
> Thanks for reading! Check out our other works, maybe! <3


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